


These Subtle Forces

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people release anger with deep-breathing and positive visualization. Veronica Mars has....another method.</p>
<p>This fic was called 'Untitled Superhero AU' for a while, but I've thought up a better title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She Should've Called a Cab

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr gifset by lovelykristenbell, which features superhero-themed GIF's from 'Heroes' and 'Tomorrow People'. Because this idea would not let go of me, at one in the morning, until I put it on paper. And because Bry and Alzaetia said they wanted it.

Veronica presses her fingertip to the lock, adrenaline pulsing through her system like licks of fire. Feels the jolt, as electricity bleeds into the metal, the click. It’s open. God bless high tech smart cars, when a girl with no means but great methods needs a fast ride.

She flings herself into the driver’s seat, covers the starter with her whole hand, marshalls her anger. Just a trickle is what she needs, to spark the engine. Think about the broken water heater, not Lianne, she warns herself. Think about the douchey landlord, claiming the rent wasn’t paid.

The engine catches, she smiles, a cat in cream, and a voice next to her drawls, “WOW, they didn’t tell me you’d be a hot blonde shooting sparks. I’m torn between the desire to point out your skin’s GLOWING, and the urge to ask if your little trick works on ATM’s.”

Her head whips around. The passenger seat, which two seconds ago was empty, now overflows with six feet of lanky, gum-chewing jackass. His Sketchers are crossed on the dash, his fingertips templed, faux-thoughtful, against his wide chest. Reddish hair and freckles suit the spark of vulpine guile in his dark eyes; he’s gone for innocent with the facial expression, but a smirk hovers.

“Sneaky!” she says, favoring him with her fakest grin. “Not in the mood for company at the moment, though. So why don’t you saunter off to whatever den of iniquity you sprang from, before I show you how well my trick works on GUYS.”

He sighs, flattens his mouth in a parody of regret. “You know, I’d love to match wits with you here, see who comes out on top. I have a feeling I’d enjoy myself, either way. But Jake Kane’s interested in this circus act of yours…and I’m what they call the engraved invitation.”

Everything inside her turns to ice, then fire. No WAY does Jake Kane get access to her talents, for whatever shady world-domination scheme he’s hatched. He’s already taken ENOUGH.

Her fingers spread, and blue lightning streaks from the webs between, enough voltage to turn this prick Wile E Coyote crisp. But all it does is char a hole in the passenger seat. The smirking jackass is gone.

She shakes her head, disbelieving; then the driver’s door’s jerked open. She’s yanked out, stumbling sideways, into a man’s grasp. Veronica gets a brief impression of stocky strength and black leather before she lets him have it, set to stun. He staggers back, cursing in Spanish. 

With a snarl, she rounds on him, searching her peripheral vision for the elusive surfer. This guy’s pale and shaved-head bald in the murky light of the alley, with black, thick-lashed eyes; a silver ring gleams in his right ear. He grins, twirls a finger in a circle, and suddenly she’s Dorothy on the way to Oz, helplessly spinning.

A dry female voice calls out, “Quit before she barfs,” and Veronica spills to the cement. She looks up at a dimpled girl in an ‘I Love Manatees’ shirt, arms crossed over her chest. “You should give up now,” the girl advises, shaking her head, making her red-streaked pigtails bounce. “We’re pretty badass, we’ve got you surrounded, and Mr. Kane only wants to talk.”

“Maybe I’m not in the mood for chit chat,” Veronica says, and blasts her. But the girl throws up a hand, and the crackling blue light spreads and dissipates, like it’s hit some kind of wall. The girl smiles, huffs on her fingernails, buffs them against her chest. Someone taps Veronica’s shoulder.

She turns, and there’s Jackass again, insolently leaning against the car. He bobs his eyebrows at her, blows a nonchalant bubble, and makes a dramatic flicking gesture with one hand, like he’s shooing a pest. Veronica goes flying backwards, into the girl’s arms. Her wrists lock together, immobile; she’s suddenly wearing handcuffs that aren’t there.

The jackass smirks, Leather Jacket snickers, the girl says, “I TOLD you to give up,” and Veronica loses it. Energy pours from her, a pulsating, merciless blue plasma wave. It streams, unchecked, from her nose and mouth, the jut of her jaw. Jackass’s eyes widen as lightning surges towards him; it catches the edge of his jacket, before he manages to disappear. The alley goes battlefield bright with white tracers. Veronica’s skin gets so hot the girl yelps, and lets go.

With a last throb of force, Veronica’s rage depletes. She crumples to the ground, drained, and everything fades back to black.


	2. Rich Person Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happiest of Birthdays to Silverlining2k6!! Because you asked for more of this one specifically. :-)
> 
> IDK if this merits a trigger warning, really, but this chapter is futuristic/cyberpunk with overtones of classic horror. Just FYI, folks.

She comes to in a cell.

It’s top-to-bottom stainless steel, not an auspicious sign, lit by a faint blue glow. She’s lying on a plasticky, electrically-inert mattress, and her wrists are bound with bulky shackles. She lifts her hands to her face to study these, as she sits up in the dimness; there’s an iridescent blue line encircling each wrist. Which is when she realizes the cuffs are siphoning her power—and the light source in this prison is HER.

“Oh look, Sleeping Beauty wakes,” says a voice to her right. She whirls, and there’s Jackass again, in a green t-shirt and jeans, lounging on his elbows at the end of her cot. “And just when I was considering rousing you with a kiss.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to knock?” She clears her throat, voice hoarse. Sits up, and finds she’s fully dressed, barring her coat. That’s folded neatly in the opposite corner, beneath her messenger bag.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather be ALONE in this pit?” He hops up and slinks a few steps, spins to face her. “Jake wants to meet, as soon as you’ve recovered from your tantrum. I’m just here to play tour guide.”

“If the scenery’s no better than THIS view,” she says, waving at her bleak surroundings, and possibly him, “it won’t be much of a tour.”

He grins, and with a dramatic snap of his fingers, disappears. A minute later, something electronic beeps, and the reinforced steel door slides open. He props his back against the frame; makes a sweeping gesture so elaborate, it’s almost a bow.

She follows him down a steel hallway, which has no defining characteristics except rows of doors; it’s lit by periodic, wall-mounted, clean-burning lamps. He whistles, a bounce in his step. She’s frankly shocked he’s so blithe about kidnapping.

“Kane must pay you a lot,” Veronica opines, checking out the label on his jeans…they're not the kind you can buy with tech drone credits. His shoes are Italian, too, and his wristwatch looks like gold. “Better than the average lackey. Your powers would be better spent lining your own nest.”

“Jake pays the OTHERS a lot,” Jackass shrugs, his smirk acknowledging her divide-and-conquer strategy. “Myself, I help out of loyalty. The man practically raised me.”

He turns left, down another steel hallway, and she reluctantly follows; it's a maze she could starve to death navigating. “Then it’s no wonder you're fine mistreating tiny blondes. Like father, like son.”

He halts, gazing down at her, expression unreadable. “You're hurt?” he asks.

“My shoulder." She's caught by the intensity of his searching stare. In the grey-white gloom, his eyes are deeper shadows, pupil blending with iris; they capture all the attention she has to give. “That Yul Brenner clone in leather threw me down hard.”

“Left or right?” She lifts her left, wincing, because her hands are bound. He feels along it gently, gauging her response. “No swelling,” he pronounces. “Or dislocation. You mind if I tug your shirt down a bit and look?”

She frowns, because it seems out of character for an abductor to ask, but nods. It’s just a shoulder. He tucks one finger in her collar and tugs it aside, drags fabric across flesh. “Medium-sized bruise,” he says, examining her wound. “We’ll put some salve on it, after you talk to Jake.”

Her head jerks, a small nod—his breath on her skin makes her shiver. The corner of his mouth quirks. He lets go of her shirt, and spins to lead her down the hall.

XXXXX

They stop in front of a segment of wall that looks like every other section; he taps the raised steel trim that runs, at intervals, from floor to ceiling. A bit of metal slides back, revealing a flashing keypad. With a bob of eyebrows, he keys in a code, blocking the numbers with his back. A concealed door whirs open, revealing a room beyond.

Jackass gestures her forwards with another mocking arm wave; she precedes him into a private dining chamber. Stage-center stands a huge steel table with a deep blue runner, along which yellow-gold candles are lined. Their flickering light makes a nimbus around the rich repast, but leaves the corners of the room in shadow.

Veronica can just make out a tall man in an overcoat, lurking in one. Here to discourage her from bolting, no doubt.

Jake Kane sits at the far end, in a grey Nehru-collared suit; he’s drinking something red from a crystal glass. He waves expansively as they enter, but doesn’t rise. “Veronica, welcome. Please, join me for a meal. You must be hungry, it's been a long day.”

“Nothing like assault and abduction to sharpen a girl’s appetite,” she agrees, perching tensely on a cold steel chair.

Jackass slumps into the seat beside her; piles his clean white plate with grapes and green leaves, and what looks like…meat? BEEF, even. Veronica taps the edge of her soup dish—yeah, it’s china—and adjusts her estimate of Jake’s fortune drastically upwards.

“So you’re not eating on principle?” Jackass asks, while she’s staring, dazed, at the largesse. He reaches past her for a wine bottle, fills his glass to the brim. “More for me. I’m a growing boy.”

“Growing OUT,” Veronica mutters, because he looks around her age, twenty-three. He laughs, unfazed, and pops a grape in his mouth.

“Logan, don’t you and Duncan have an engagement this evening?” Jake asks, as Jackass slices a chunk of beef, forks up half. “A cocktail party, as I recall, at the Bishop’s compound?”

Jackass tilts his head to one side, then the other, voiceless equivocation. “There’s always a party somewhere,” he manages, swallowing. “And if it offers advantageous mingling, you KNOW Duncan will show.”

“As should YOU,” Jake chides, which makes Jackass—Logan—smirk. He toasts Jake with his glass, pours the entire contents down his throat. Pops the rest of the beef into his mouth. Winks at Veronica as he gets up, salutes Jake; exits stage left, taking a handful of grapes.

“Alone at last,” Veronica says, with false bravado, when the door slides shut. “Whatever will we talk about? And how am I supposed to eat with my hands in this chastity belt?”

Jake nods at the man in the corner, who moves forward, and presses a small gadget to the cuffs. With a hiss and whir, they separate, leaving a bracelet on each wrist. She tries channeling power, subtly; in her lap, her bonds glow brighter.

“I have a proposition for you, Veronica,” Jake says, as she grabs up her plate. Because food is food; and she's eaten nothing but a texturized-protein burrito in the last two days.

“No shit,” she says flatly, trying the green leaves—they’re lightly coated with peppery oil. She piles some in her soup bowl, and starts sawing off chunks of roast. “Let me guess…my special abilities can save humanity, if only I’ll power your technology.”

“Veronica, I recognize you’re bitter that your mother left you,” he says, instead of answering. “And I’m sure, to some extent, you blame me, because I’m the one who lured her away. But you should understand—she left me, eventually, too. And outside the bounds of that…disagreement, you and I have a great deal in common.”

“Scrappy childhoods?” she guesses, plucking a handful of grapes from their stems. “Free of the pernicious influences of security and money?”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “I’ve worked my way up to this lifestyle from the bottom. And now that I’ve established myself, I’m in a position to give back. Logan, for example, recently lost his mother, and enjoys my largesse. You could, as well.”

“And what precisely would I have to do, to earn this generosity?” She forks a bite of beef into her mouth and closes her eyes as the flavor coats her tongue. It’s savory and rich, soy sauce, mushroom powder, salt, fat. All the things she needs—this latest spate of unemployment left her dangerously thin.

“Create an electric surge,” he says. “Of a specific amplitude, lasting approximately nine and a half minutes.”

She arches her brows, consumes a forkful of leaves. “And you didn’t consider just…offering payment? Since you knew exactly where to find me? I accept cash and all major food debit cards, FYI. And I’m not overly choosy about clientele.”

“Veronica,” he chides, settling back in his chair, cradling his wineglass in one hand. “What if I were to tell you that I’ve developed the ability to end suffering? That I’ve created an invention which can offer hope, and a fresh start, to many, many people who before had no recourse? Wouldn’t you feel morally OBLIGATED to help me? Wouldn’t you be EAGER?”

She splashes some wine in a glass, drinks. Winces slightly at the sour tang. “I’d say you’re not the first person to offer me a seemingly irresistible deal. Or even the third. Ever since the fossil fuels ran out, my abilities have been, shall we say, in demand? My willingness to comply, though…that doesn’t seem to matter. You’re a smart man—you know why I live off the grid. And I’d guess my mother ran from you, and wastes her days in border-town shitholes, because she mistakenly thinks I’ll be safer. Her life expectancy shortened drastically, when she sent away the kid guys with no morals want.”

He sets his glass down with a decided click. “No MORALS? Veronica, this invention will change the WORLD! I’ll be hailed as a hero on every continent!”

“Why am I in energy-funneling handcuffs, then, Jake?” She polishes off her last bite of steak. Pushes away from the table, stands. “Never mind, you’ll just lie. Here’s my stance: I don’t want your job, and I don’t want your gilded cage. I’d like you to call off the goon squad, and let me go.”

“I think you misunderstand,” Jake tells her mildly--a statement which is not, in fact, true. “I’m going to make trillions off this machine. Not even leaders of nations will cross me. I didn’t bring you here to offer you a CHOICE. I just wanted to explain, before we proceed, how VERY much your sacrifice will mean, to so many who’ve lost all hope. Your disappearance may not be noticed by anyone who matters, Veronica. But know that I’M grateful for the help you’re going to provide.”

She turns to run, too late, too late, but the big guy from the corner moves silently to block her; grabs her by the waist, yanking her feet from the floor. Veronica struggles--but he’s unflappable, and his grip is granite. He holds her still with one arm, and presses a hypo-spray to her neck.

The last thing she sees, before her vision goes black, is Jake Kane sniffing his wine.

XXXXX

When she wakes, she’s in a small dark room, strapped to a table.

She struggles--it’s habit, now, though she knows it’s futile--but the bolts around her wrists and ankles won’t budge. Her efforts cause the fluorescents in the room to kick on, though, albeit weakly. So the function of the table is clear.

When she turns her head to the right, she’s met with a wall of blinking machinery, powering up now, thanks to her surge of life force. A counter clicks on, reading 1:00. Begins methodically losing seconds.

When she turns her head to the left, she sees another table, much like hers. Wired to which is the body of a girl.

The corpse is grey-green in the bleaching light, but intact—recent, or perhaps just well-preserved. Her long blonde hair fans out, hanging off the edge of the table, and she’s dressed in summer white. This girl died young, at maybe eighteen, curvaceous, once-pretty, slightly plump; her lips are full, and there’s a tilt to her large, closed eyes. Her nails are jagged at the edges, a small, weird flaw. Her feet are bare.

“Relax, Veronica.” Jake’s voice comes from behind, but she can’t crane her neck far enough to see. “This won’t hurt you…we’re NEVER going to hurt you. You’ll need to sleep for a while, after we’re done. Then you’ll be fed again in your room.”

“You mean cell,” she says, but he doesn’t answer. She hears murmuring, and the beep of pressed buttons.

The machine buzzes, as the counter winds down to zero; a spark burns, skitters across her skull. Panic floods her, because it feels like they just stimulated her brain. And that means…

Electricity surges through the machine, and it kicks into high speed with a labored whine. Showers of sparks spray from the clamps around Veronica’s wrists.

She feels herself draining as the equipment gains steam. Her vision narrows towards a pinpoint.

Veronica stares at the body, willing herself to stay conscious, to stay aware, to wait for her next chance. She can’t let them mess with her brain. She won’t be kept in a box, like a…

Just before she loses the battle with blackness, the dead girl sits up, and screams.


	3. Fly the Friendly Skies

CHAPTER THREE

Veronica surfaces slowly, with the standard grinding, nauseous headache; her limbs feel weak and shaky, so maybe she’d better not stand. When her eyes blink open, the too-bright blue glow makes her wince. She’s still bleeding power.

Subsiding, she takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, focusing on calm, serenity, ease. Regulating her biorhythms before she passes out, again. It’s always the same when these arrogant assholes mess with her freaking BRAIN…

The room flares blue, and a voice from the foot of the bed says, “You need to get a handle on that temper, hot stuff. If you lost it this way during make-up sex, you might KILL someone.”

“But what a way to go.” Her voice sounds as flat and exhausted as she feels. “I don’t suppose you brought anything to eat? Jake needs to be a better zookeeper, if he doesn’t want me slipping into a coma.”

“Alas, just salve for your bruise.” She notes for the first time the Jackass’s voice is slurred. When she cracks one eye, he’s messy and flushed, hair disarranged from its artful tangle. “But if you can keep a secret, I’ve got a flask I’ll share.”

“A flask of what?” She manages to sit up, bracing herself on the wall. “Judging by your appearance, I’d guess bathtub gin.”

He ruffles his hair, transitory vain impulse, smiles. Even wasted, his charisma’s palpable. “Brother Jack,” he corrects. Removes a flat silver rectangle from his pocket, hands it over. “Bottled long ago and far away. It stings going down, but tastes good and has calories.”

“You burn ‘em too?” she asks. His gorging at the dinner table suddenly makes sense.

“By the truckload.” He watches, amused, as she swigs, and extends a hand to take the bottle. “I’m a double threat. Tried to get fat once….couldn’t manage. Looking this good is LITERALLY a curse.”

She’s torn between wanting to laugh and hating him for trapping her. “Maybe if you spent less time collecting victims for your deranged mentor, you’d have some left over for leisure.”

“See, your prickly attitude makes me feel unhelpful.” His gentle tone is at odds with the implicit threat. “And I was SO looking forward to stirring up static, working in salve.”

“Do you have any clue what he made me do?” she asks, as he produces a pot from his pocket, in contradiction to his words. Lifts his brows to request consent, and tucks her neckline aside when she nods.

“Mmmm, medical machines would be my guess.” His touch is gentle, skilled… practiced at stroking feminine skin. Veronica draws breath as his hand trails lower, fingertips ghosting across her scapula. Her flesh heats, giving off the scent of herbs, and the room glows brighter blue. “I’m not the only one in this compound who loves to play doctor.”

“He forced me to reanimate a corpse,” she says, cold, and the sexual tension deflates.

“Come again?” Jackass yanks his hand away, hesitantly scratches his ear. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Just call Jake Dr. Frankenstein.” She straightens her sleeve. “It was a blonde girl, died at maybe eighteen, slanted eyes, bitten nails. He fed her half my life force in two minutes flat. When I passed out from the pain, she was screaming.”

“Screaming,” he says, inscrutable; she can’t catalogue his shifting expressions. Horror, skepticism, loathing…and hope? Anger at the hope, and at her. Anger that morphs into rage.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he decides, dark eyes glittering, upper lip lengthening in a sneer. “You’d say ANYTHING to get out of here. And you’ve obviously figured out who I am.”

She shakes her head, because she hasn’t got a clue. “Jake’s holding me prisoner—he’ll never let me go. And if he keeps draining me like this, I’ll die.”

“Maybe that makes you the lucky one,” Jackass says, softly. Snaps, and disappears.

She sinks back onto the mattress, shaking from hunger and exhaustion. Wishes she could still manage, occasionally, to cry.

XXXXX

Veronica’s awakened, who knows how much later, by a loud metallic clang. It reverberates in the air, waves of pressure; when she sits up, adrenalized, there’s a dent in the door. She backs into the corner of the cot, wishing for a hiding place. Nothing human has this much power.

The clang repeats, becomes a pattern, a barrage of hits like some giant’s in a rage. Metal twists and buckles under the force of the blows…finally, excruciatingly tears.

Through the twisted, smoking hole, she sees the Jackass, face red with effort, fists clenched. His eyes burn with focused, calculating fury. Someone will pay for making him mad.

She shrinks against the wall as he steps through, and he smiles—not a nice smile, but not a threat, either. “Come on, hot stuff.” He extends a hand. “Time’s a wastin’.”

With a surge of effort, she makes it to her feet, twining her fingers through his and letting him pull her past the wreckage. “Too much trouble to use the code?” she asks, as they run down the hall. They’re accompanied by a siren, faintly blaring.

“I don’t know it,” he shrugs, glancing right, then drags her left at an intersection. “My visits were what you might call unauthorized. Gotta admit, though, smashing through that door was therapeutic. I’m not in the sunniest of moods.”

“Clearly.” She matches his clipped, hard tone. “But you’re playing cavalry, so I won’t critique manners.”

“Here.” He yanks a wrapped object out of his pocket and hands it over, leading her down a stairwell. “Energy bar—it’s got three thousand calories. You’ll have to eat and run, but at least you won’t drop in your tracks. There are more, once we manage to escape. IF we manage.”

“Why the change of heart?” She stuffs half in her mouth, as they reach the bottom and he types in a code. The bar’s dense and sweet, bread and honey. “Last time we talked, you weren’t feeling friendly.”

“I did a little snooping.” The door swings open, revealing a manicured lawn; it’s punctuated by outbuildings and cloaked in shadow. Rain drizzles down, making puddles in the grass. “Which is kind of my specialty. Didn’t much like what I found.”

“Located the zombie, did you?” She follows him outside, around the corner to a maintenance shed. He lurks in its lee, observing. “Or the mad scientist’s lab?”

“The latter,” he agrees, barely a breath, pressing a finger to his lips in caution. “IN which, I found enough incontrovertible proof to justify blowing up my life to spring you. Don’t get us caught with your Chatty Cathy routine, and make me regret it.”

“The yard is deserted,” she says, matching his hushed tone. “Who exactly do you think will hear me?”

“Cameras,” he whispers. “Motion-activated. As soon as we move onto the grass, we’re busted. If it was just me, I’d fold space, but you don’t share my aptitude.”

“So we make a break for it?” she asks, and he nods. “Zap anything that comes close? Also, I assume you’ve got a plan for getting past the defenses?”

“I unlocked the gate,” he says. “Then disabled the perimeter shield. Beyond that, we improvise. One, two, and THREE FUCKING RUN!”

Veronica puts her head down against the drizzle and sprints, slick city shoes slipping on the soaked turf. Above, from both directions, klieg lights blaze on, flooding the yard with a harsh fluorescent glare. A magnified voice booms, “LOCKDOWN IS IN EFFECT! FREEZE AND WAIT FOR ESCORT!” and something sticky flies past, grazing her arm.

“Net guns!” Logan says, grimly, grabbing her hand to yank her along faster. As they careen around a corrugated metal building the fence hoves into view; it’s barbed and forbidding, with towers set at intervals. The guards are armed, old-fashioned projectile weapons. One aims as they forge forward, shoots straight at Logan, who flings a hand out to halt the ballistic strike.

The projectile, a sticky grey wad, hits his shockwave and expands into a crackling net, hissing and writhing as the web spreads. It keeps growing even as it’s flung backwards towards the panicked shooter. When it strikes, it cocoons him, immobilizing him in seconds.

Veronica spots the gate and swerves towards it….tries to electrify a near-miss netball and realizes she’s still in damping bracelets. “You left these ON?” she demands, waving her wrist at Logan. “I can’t fight!”

He makes a flicking gesture with forefinger and thumb, and one wristband cracks open. She zaps the guard nearest their exit, and his focused firing position devolves into screaming spasms. Electrocuted, he falls.

Logan throws both hands out in a shoving motion as they approach the gate, and it swings open as if smacked. Then he goes flying, spinning up into the air, headed for a guard tower; disappears, just before he splats.

Fear courses through Veronica, because what the hell? It runs down her nerves and out her fingertips, a blaze of electrical fury aimed right at the source of the cyclone. It strikes an invisible wall, crackles, dissipates, and abruptly she’s airborne, whirling like a grocery bag on spirals of wind.

She’s flung towards the fence, barbed steel and menace, face first, and all she can do is put her hands over her eyes. Then she thuds into something warm and solid, which squawks with pain.

Arms go around her, cling. It’s Jackass….Logan, he took the impact on his back to spare her. The ground rushes up to meet them, wet and unforgiving; he holds a hand out, negating, and the force yo-yos them up again. Then something hard and invisible closes around them. They float, suspended, in a box that isn’t there.

“What the HELL are you thinking, dumbass?” The genie lookalike from Veronica’s abduction enters the gate and gazes up, arms akimbo. “We just caught her yesterday and ALREADY she’s convinced you to run? I know you’re an idiot about blondes, but you’re outdoing yourself here.”

Logan disappears with a pop, and reappears on the ground beside him, hands up to indicate truce. “There’s things you don’t know, man,” he says. “Jake’s using Veronica to bring dead people back to life, and killing her in the process. I have PROOF.”

“What dead people?” the guy snaps, as the red-pigtailed girl appears behind him. The Veronica-containing box begins to lower towards the ground. “What proof? Because depending how much I hate the guys involved, my opinion could go either way.”

Logan rummages through his pocket as the guard three towers down descends, speaking into a walkie-talkie. From the building across the lawn come the shouts of approaching reinforcements. He pulls out something tiny, shimmering, waves it in Sinbad’s face like a bull’s red flag.

The guy frowns, focuses, and Logan says, “I gave these to her for her birthday, last year. She was BURIED in them.”

Taking the delicate object—it’s an earring, Veronica thinks, but she’s too far away to be sure—the bald guy turns it over in his fingers. Looks up at Logan, grim. “Wouldn’t you WANT her back, though? If it was possible? Despite the way she jerked us all around?”

“Didn’t you ever read Pet Sematary?” Logan checks past his shoulder to clock the progress of Jake’s defense squad, but keeps his voice conciliatory. “Stories like this don’t have happy endings.”

“And he’s draining the blonde to wake them up?” Logan nods, and the guy sighs, hands on hips in resignation. “Fine. Guess we’re taking our act on the road. I don’t mind so much when GUILTY people die, but I got a problem sacrificing innocent ones.”

“Really?” Red Pigtails asks skeptically, as wind whips and spins beneath the invisible box, lofting Veronica skyward. “You’re SERIOUSLY alienating JAKE KANE, just to save this girl you don’t know from Eve? All because he MAYBE gave you the chance to see your dead mutual ex-girlfriend again?”

“Mac,” Logan says, impatient. “If he can bring back Lilly, he can bring back ANYONE. You really want to live in a world where nobody stays dead?”

She cocks her head, considering. Reinforcements rounds the corner, and she immobilizes the group with a flip of her free hand. “That depends,” she says, thoughtful. “If I say no, what’s in it for me?”

“Whatever you want,” Veronica interjects. Because she’s met plenty of mercenaries, and she’s clear on their priorities. “If it can be accomplished electronically, I’ll provide the voltage.”

The girl, Mac, smiles, and says, “Well, this sounds like the beginning of a VERY lucrative arrangement. Deal. Plus, who knows? It might be fun, OUTWITTING Jake instead of playing toady.”

“Did you short out the shield?” The bald guy asks Logan, approaching. He creates loft beneath himself, rising to Veronica’s level, and climbs into her box like the wall’s not there. “Or will we all go up in flames when we reach the compound’s edge?”

Logan shakes his head, boosting Mac so she can climb in, too. “Always underestimating me, Weevs,” he says, with mock chagrin. Snaps, disappears, and reappears beside Veronica, gangly legs comfortably crossed. “Now, everybody click your heels together three times and repeat after me…’There’s no place like home’.”

He smacks a palm flat against the box’s floor and it goes rocketing into the sky, propelled by an amount of power Veronica doubts he should have. It lofts, wind-spun, over the fence; pierces an uncharged force membrane with a faint pop, and drifts towards the night-dark neighboring town.


	4. Slumming It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, so anyone remember this fic? Probably not! But here's a new chapter anyway.
> 
> Mild warning for non-graphic superhero-type violence and monsters. :-)

CHAPTER FOUR

Logan’s power sustains them for maybe three miles, bounce-drifting over the city like a mostly-invisible balloon, before the shield starts to waver and jerk. He slumps against the side of the box, and says, “Weevs, find us a landing spot. Mac, make a cushion. I depleted my stores bashing through that door, and I have the ugly sense we’ll be falling fast, soon.”

“Parking lot up ahead.” Weevil squints down through the moonlit smog. “Mostly empty, just a few abandoned junkers. Dunno how much precision I can guarantee in the dark, so brace yourselves for impact.”

They go spiraling down towards the cracked square of asphalt, bounce slightly and then jostle sideways. Smack the pavement hard enough Veronica’s teeth clack, narrowly avoiding a car. Her bones, however, seem intact.

She stands, stretches. Mac peers around as if finding her bearings, and Logan slumps on the ground, head in hand.

“So now what?” Weevil surveys him with crossed arms. “We didn’t so much burn bridges back there as napalm them--and we’re stuck in Kane’s zero-electricity slum with no money, fuel or food.”

“He’ll send troops after us, too.” Mac dusts off her shirt and yawns. “Mercs, probably, with guns. Jake won’t be happy we took his little-turbine-that-could. We need to make it out of his sphere of influence, fast, and into literally anyone else’s. Hopefully that of a patron we can convince to protect us…or hire us.”

“Also, it’s gonna be hard to learn how and why he’s resurrecting people, now we’re persona non grata at the compound,” Weevil adds, dry. “So if you were daydreaming about stopping him, forget that plan. You see a blonde in peril and rush blindly to the rescue every time, Echolls. It’s like a sickness with you.”

Logan flips him off without raising his head, and Veronica steps in. “Kane wants to get rich reviving dead billionaires,” she says. “He told me as much, over dinner. Although he couched it in more self-congratulatory terms.”

“Starting with his own heir apparent,” Logan mutters, and it occurs to Veronica he’s upset. He looks up, and the expression in his eyes is bleak. “Veronica said…Lilly was screaming.”

“If you were violently murdered, then suddenly weren’t dead anymore,” Mac says, reasonably, “maybe you’d scream, too.”

“Wait, Jake’s daughter was MURDERED?” Veronica demands. “I thought she drowned in a pool!”

“How do you know where Lilly died?” Weevil frowns, suddenly suspicious. “What is Kane to you?”

“My mother was his mistress.” Veronica leans back against a rusted-out car. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard, he didn’t bring the family around. But when she got drunk--which happened frequently--she’d gossip about his pillow talk.”

“We need to eat.” Logan sprawls onto his back on the unclean ground. Fishes four power bars out of his pocket, which he fans like cards. “Not just this, real food. And then sleep, somewhere safe. None of us will be worth shit, fighting, if we don’t refuel.”

“There’s a hotel not too far from here that keeps secrets for a price,” Veronica says. “You’re loaded, right? You can pay?”

“If I use my debit card, Jake will track me within an hour.” Logan doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “He’s probably monitoring us across all city networks. Plus, good luck finding a business in this slum that takes anything other than coin.”

Remembering Logan’s crack when first they met, Veronica asks, “What about random ATM withdrawals? Would they monitor those?”

“From any account of yours? Absolutely,” Logan says. “If they haven’t already been drained and closed. From an anonymous stranger’s, maybe not, unless Jake’s expending power to watch ATM cameras?”

Mac lifts her brows. “If you can raid anonymous accounts electronically, why aren’t YOU stinking rich? In a compound with protective mercs of your very own?”

“Because I don’t STEAL,” Veronica snaps. “Generally speaking. Most people with jobs that put money in banks barely make enough to survive.”

“You stole a car,” Logan points out, levering himself upright at he chews, leaning on a badly-dented hood for balance. “Or tried to, anyway—that was our meet-cute.”

“Because I was offered a JOB!” Veronica wrinkles her nose at him. “And I had no way to get there. My landlord’s gotten more odious since mom took off, and…I figured if I could sneak out of town, I might be able to start fresh. Besides, it’s not like anybody’s driving electric cars, these days. They just sit around abandoned, rotting, like all these luxury gas guzzlers.”

“What kind of job?” Mac asks, after swallowing a dainty bite. “And would your client hire us as a package deal? We saved your ass tonight, so technically you owe us.”

“It occurs to me,” Logan talks around his own mouthful, “that getting into someone else’s territory, under someone else’s protection, would be thereby facilitated.”

“First real food.” Weevil crumples the wrapper of his bar and shoves it in his pocket. “I’m light-headed myself, and you’re about to pass out. Then Miss Spirit-Fingers here can hotwire a Tesla, and we can find a place to stay once we’re far out of town. Take turns sleeping during the trip.”

“ATM.” Mac points across the street, opens the other hand towards a trash can. Her wrapper flies across the lot and sinks neatly in. “And about two blocks down the road there’s an abandoned Wal-Mart…inside which a thriving black market operates.”

Veronica sighs. “I’d feel better about taking money if deposits were still insured,” she says, but walks in the indicated direction. Sends an arc of blue energy from one index finger as she goes, striking the cash machine top-center. “Camera,” she explains, when Logan lifts his brows. “If we want to make it out of town, can’t let ourselves be spotted.”

He shrugs and follows, as do the others; leans against a boarded-up One Hour Photo as she lays a hand on the faded Chase logo. Sends just enough pulse through to make the machine thrum and click, then pulls back before the blue glow fades.

“Two hundred.” Weevil whistles as he counts and pockets the dispensed cash. “No wonder everybody and his mother wants to kidnap you. Only miracle is, it hasn’t happened sooner.”

“How do you figure that?” Veronica arches a brow, and he had the grace to look shamefaced. “I’ve been fending off abduction attempts since before I could do long division. My dad got himself killed trying to protect me. Sure hope you bunch of show-offs don’t meet the same fate.”

“Nobody’s come close yet.” Logan eyeballs the sprawling grey building at the end of the road, turns to walk backwards. “And it’s doubtful anyone will—for one thing, they’d have to catch me.”

He winks and disappears, causing a clap of displaced air, and Mac snorts. “Guess he heard the words ‘show-off’ as a challenge.”

“As usual.” Weevil shoves hands in pockets, trudging steadily onwards. It’s begun to rain, a hot, bad-smelling drizzle; he ducks his chin into his collar like a particularly intimidating turtle in a vain effort to keep dry. “If it can’t be done flamboyantly, he doesn’t bother.”

Veronica begins to jog--she’s unclear about the rain’s acid level and doesn’t have an umbrella--but she’s abruptly encircled by nothing and yanked back. “Stay with the rest of the class,” Mac chides, raising a palm to the sky and creating a portico, water sluicing from the edges. “We don’t know who’s in that building, and we can’t hop through space like demented chinchillas the way Echolls prefers.”

They traipse across the carless, garbage-filled store lot and towards the entrance arch, capped by a shorted-out neon sign. Just outside the doorway, Logan waits, arms and ankles crossed as he leans against the wall. “Door’s locked,” he says, straightening with an easy shove as they approach. “I hope you know the secret knock, or we’ll be dining elsewhere.”

Weevil rolls his eyes, raps hard on the board covering a badly-blowtorched hole. In a few seconds, it slides aside, and an eye peers out. “Password?”

“Chupame.” Weevil’s statement is met with a low laugh. Through the gap in the door comes the sound of a bar sliding back, and the thing swings inwards with a groan.

Inside, the air is close and hot, dense with smoke and the odor of unwashed bodies. Weevil passes a ten to the skinny Hispanic kid playing doorman; gestures with his head at the folding tables lining the main floor, empty clothing racks pushed back to accommodate.

It’s an open-air market without the open air, vendors hawking everything from chipped china to faded packages of Pampers. Hundreds of patrons wander through, examining goods and bargaining while, far off in a distant corner, an off-key Mariachi band plays ‘De Colores’.

“Focus on food stands,” Weevil advises Veronica, who’s thoughtfully inspecting an ancient can of pepper spray. “Run by someone organized and clean, so we don’t end up puking or eating Fido.”

She grimaces and complies, clocking her companions’ progress as she makes her way through the scrum. Stops as the scent of roasting meat reaches her nostrils, and located the red-draped table on which a Sterno-fueled Hibachi sits.

“Burgers?” she asks the cheerful salesman, a short guy with a short afro in a red-checked shirt, humming as he carefully flips patties. “Like real cow-meat? How do you keep from getting mobbed?”

He jerks his thumb behind him, where a shaved-head thug in camo stands, arms folded, glaring discouragingly at passers-by. “I gotta be honest, though,” he tells her, with an easy smile. “It’s some cow, some goat. Cows are trickier to raise without antibiotics, but goats just can NOT be denied.”

Veronica whistles, and Echolls materializes beside her so rapidly he might as well have teleported. “Dinner,” she says, indicating the goods displayed neatly on plastic plates. “He’s even got bread. And TOMATOES.”

“Fifteen dollars per.” The salesman presses down with his spatula to make the meat sizzle. “Including a soda and the works.”

“We’ll take eight,” Logan tells him, as Weevil and Mac move up alongside. “Pay the man, Weevs. It’s worth the price for the smell alone.”

Veronica expects a protest, but the money’s passed without complaint, the meals assembled deftly and fast. “Just like mama used to make.” Red Check passes off the cash he’s handed to his non-verbal enforcer, and wraps each burger carefully in a paper towel. “Just like mama DID make this actual morning, so the bread’s still fresh. Careful with the first bite, that grill gets hot.”

“Oh God.” Veronica ignores the advice in favor of sinking in teeth. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a burger. And it tastes like salt!”

“Secret seasoning recipe.” The proprietor takes fresh patties from a cooler and lays them on the grill, cleans his hands with a squirt of sanitizer. “Just try and torture it out of me. I’ll never tell.”

“Ugh, I wish meat wasn’t the food with all the calories.” Mac takes a grimacing bite that makes Veronica’s eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Did you at least obtain this ethically? Never mind, not sure I want to know.”

“I’m part of a farming collective,” the salesman says mildly, bagging up round two with bottled sodas. He gestures at a stack of forms on the corner of the table. “We’re taking applications, if you’re interested in gardening or animals. No electricity, and you gotta ride to town in a wagon. But it’s a nice, safe place to live and there’s plenty to eat.”

“If it’s safe, you don’t want us visiting.” Logan shoves the rest of his first burger in his mouth and talks around the obstruction. “Your nice bread-baking mom wouldn’t enjoy the trouble.”

“Is that a fact?” The guy grins at a little boy wandering past with his mother, wearing an oversized 49’ers jersey. Tosses him a tomato that lands neatly in small, outstretched hands. “Maybe all you need’s to get off the grid for a while. Re-learn how to be a normal person.”

“Maybe you should quit being a softy.” Weevil digs through the bag for his second burger. “And stop throwing food around before you waste it and make a mess.”

“Now, see, that’s not going to happen.” The guy winks, flipping the burgers and accepting a handful of bills from a waiting old-timer. “I don’t miss. I NEVER miss. After a considerable period of trial and error, I’m pretty sure it’s not possible.”

Mac sends an arch look towards Weevil, who frowns and shakes his head. Veronica juggles food to extend a hand. “Impressive talent. I’m Veronica, by the way.”

“Wallace Fennel.” He shakes. “Used to want to be a basketball player, but I unexpectedly became the man of the house. Now I just do my best to help my family get by.”

“Yeah, we’re trying to get by, too.” Weevil powers down the rest of his second burger, eating even faster than Logan. Adds, in a lowered voice, “And right now, we need to get GOING. If someone tracked us here, it’d be a bad place for a last stand. Too many old people and kids, plus goods folks in this neighborhood need.”

“Sounds like the rain’s stopped.” Logan tilts an ear towards the ceiling. “Want me to look for that Tesla?”

Weevil nods, and making a jackass-y OK gesture, Logan disappears from view.

“So tell me about this collective,” Mac invites Wallace, folding up one of the applications and tucking it in her jeans pocket. “Is it sustainable agriculture? Do you have a full garden?”

“We do our best.” He locates a knife and begins to slice a fresh tomato. “Certain plants are tricky, and you know, none of us grew up farming. But we’re always on the lookout for books, or people with the right exp…”

He jerks back as, with a whoosh and clap, Logan reappears, windblown and intent-eyed, mouth set in a grim line. “Mercs all around the cash machine,” he says, catching Veronica by the hand, tugging her along after him as she hastily eats her last bite. “You wouldn’t happen to know where there’s a back door, Fennel? One we can get to in a hurry?”

“I’ll show you.” Wallace gestures for the scowling bodyguard to take his place and skirts the table, moving at an easy jog through the crowd. “And by the way, give a guy some warning if you’re gonna be appearing and disappearing at the drop of a hat. Where I come from, it’s polite to mention you can do the kind of things other people can’t.”

“Where I come from, nobody gives a shit about politeness.” Logan scans the crowd as Weevil and Mac close ranks behind them. “Unless, of course, cameras are rolling. But I’ll try to employ etiquette once we’re not fleeing for our lives.”

“We’re constantly explaining to him it’s better not to advertise,” Mac puts in, as Wallace makes a left beneath a Sporting Goods sign towards the left-rear wall. “Because once people know you’re capable, you lose the element of surprise. But patience and circumspection are not Echolls virtues.”

“And you’re hardly a model of tact, but do you see me lecturing?” Logan points at the ‘Restrooms’ placard over an archway, brows raised, and Wallace nods. “All right, shields up. We have no way of knowing who’s out there, so we’ll have to move fast.”

Veronica disentangles from him so she can bleed current to her fingertips, tingeing the unlit hallway pale blue. “Whoa,” Wallace says, as he struggles with the bar that holds the steel door closed. “Who ARE you guys?”

“To you? Friends.” Mac extends both palms out flat as if to ward off trouble. “On three, swing it open and jump back out of the way. One, two, thr…”

The bar flies up with a clang as Wallace jerks it free, and the door falls open at a slant. Mac looks square into the eyes of a surprised mercenary holding a blowtorch, then force-field-punches him so hard he goes flying.

“Company!” she yells, and beside Veronica, Logan disappears. Reappears behind the infiltrators clustered on both sides of the door and flings his arms out left and right, scattering them like Moses at the Red Sea.

One of the groups goes spinning, caught in a whirwind that lofts and tosses, netballs auto-firing in a circle. So Veronica hits the others with a St.-Vitus-Dance-inducing jolt, and shouts, “Wallace, once we’re out, bar the door!”

“Then GET out!” he yells from behind her, picking up a mop bucket and beaning a bum-rushing merc in the forehead. “I can’t close anything with your bodies in the way!”

“Kane Security, lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your heads!” someone intones through a bullhorn, shining a spotlight on the melee. Mac grimaces and throws up a shield as the three of them clear the door, against which three or four netballs splat.

“Fat chance.” Logan makes a beckoning gesture; the SWAT vehicle’s driver whacks his head against the steering wheel and goes limp. With his other hand, he flicks a merc away from the Wal-Mart door and slam it shut. “Get that van open and make sure no people are in it, folks--it’s our ride out of here. Mars, I hope you drive fast.”

“Sure, when properly motivated.” Mac yanks an arm back, tearing open the van’s rear door, and Veronica zaps the two guards who jump out. “Weevil, behind you!”

He spins from creating a gust of wind to hold a half-conscious merc at bay, just in time to take a netball to the chest. “Shit!” he says as tendrils spread from the impact site, then falls over wriggling, cocooned. “Get me out of this before it seals!”

“Mackenzie, toss him in the car!” Logan yells. He disappears, then reappears in the van’s passenger seat, shoves the unconscious driver out the door. “Ladies, move your asses, reinforcements are definitely on the way!”

Weevil begins sliding across the asphalt as if dragged, then goes flying—lands in the back of the van with a thud. Mac holds one hand above her head to make a shield as a chopper appears in the distance, klieg lights playing over the city, manages a running dive inside as a merc grabs for her. Veronica zaps him before he can yank her back out.

Logan guns the engine and heads straight for Veronica, both cab doors open and flapping. Skids as he tries to brake, enabling her to grab the passenger doorframe and jump in. Says, “Climb over me and switch places before I wreck this thing and kill us!”

“Close the doors!” she yells, doing as instructed, trying to ignore the heat and bulk of him in favor of saving their skins. He claps his hands, complying. She stretches to reach the pedals and accelerates out of the lot. “You can’t drive?”

“Where exactly would I go?” He checks the back--Mac’s valiantly shielding so she and Weevil don’t fly out. Makes a tugging motion to shut the cargo door, and Veronica sees the girl sigh with relief in the rearview. “The adjoining compounds of the wealthy are the only places in this city worth visiting!”

“I need scissors!” Mac calls, and he tosses her a small knife from his pocket. “Great,” she mutters, bending over a thrashing Weevil. “Veronica, try not to jostle and weave, so I don’t stab our friend while cutting him loose.”

“No promises!” Veronica veers to avoid a bicyclist as she careens down the cracked and pitted feeder. “The chopper’s gaining,” she adds, speeding up as she merges onto the highway. “I can’t jolt them from this far away. What do we do?”

Logan leans out the window to gauge distance, squinting one eye shut against the wind. “Wish me luck,” he says, tucking back in, and fixes her with an uncharacteristically serious dark gaze. “And if I don’t have the juice to make it back--do your best to stop Jake and help Lilly, okay?”

Veronica nods, then startles as with a pop, he vanishes. Watches through the windshield, picking up speed, as the helicopter tilts sideways and several passengers fall out. Then it goes into a slow spin as the rotors stall, and begins plummeting towards the ground.

Her teeth worry her lower lip as the impact approaches, because Echolls had a good thing going before he threw it away to save her. And granted, he’s a jackass, but death in a fiery explosion as punishment ventures way into overkill territor…

With a whoosh, he rematerializes in the seat beside her, blood dripping from his temple and a long gash down his left arm. Smiles at her, faintly, before promptly passing out. Just as, about a mile ahead, the chopper crashes drunkenly center-highway, sending plumes of flame in every direction.

“Great,” Veronica says, because there isn’t an exit ramp nearby, and driving a gas-powered vehicle through a wall of fire isn’t an option. “Mac, I hope you’re done back there, because we’ve got problems.”

“We can’t fly with Weevil tied up and Logan unconscious,” the girl calls, muttering an apology as Weevil curses. “If I get this arm free, can you make some kind of whirlwind vacuum? Suck up the flames?”

“After no sleep, two fights, and two small-ass burgers?” Weevil yanks on the net to get his arm free, which only makes it constrict more. “I can maybe turn the wind away from us while we pass, if there’s room to get by. But that thing’ll have to burn itself out.”

“We need to stop the car and bail, then.” Mac sighs relief as she succeeds in cutting his torso loose. “Now, while we’re at the bottom of an overpass, less than twenty feet off the ground.”

Veronica hits the brakes; the van skids sideways as it grinds to a halt, close enough to the burning chopper to both see and feel the fire. She tries to shake Echolls awake, which accomplishes nothing, then removes her jacket to bind his still-bleeding arm.

“Done!” Mac chirps as Weevil sits up with a groan, free except for a swath of net around his right leg. “Let’s make tracks now, before reinforcements appear.”

Reaching across Logan, Veronica opens the passenger door. Mac climbs out to force-field-lift him, frowning as she focuses through the strain.

Weevil leans over the guard rail and peers down at the access road. “About ten feet,” he tells Mac. “Make us something to stand on, I can cushion our fall.”

She nods as Veronica crawls after Logan, flattens a palm in the direction of their feet. They all jolt upwards about an inch. Grimacing, Mac sets Logan atop, hoists the thing over the railing and climbs on…then, with a sigh, lets go. They drift side to side, like a feather falling, and with a jarring shudder, touch down.

The jolt wakes Logan, who jerks against the hard ground, absurdly long lashes fluttering. “Not burning alive,” he murmurs, unfocused gaze coming to rest on Veronica. “Always a good sign.”

“You are an IDIOT,” she tells him, brushing hair away from his temple so she can get a better look at his cut. The faint smile reappears, playing around one corner of his mouth. “And you need to recover fast so you can find us another Tesla.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re demanding?” He breathes out hard as he tries to sit up. “Shit, not only am I fried from overexertion, I’m DIZZY.”

“Yeah, looks like you hit your head.” Weevil gives his temple a cursory investigation, then stands to scope their surroundings. “You’ll live. We ain’t all that far from the Wal Mart, though. So we need to get moving, or you’ll do it incarcerated.”

“Like any jail could hold me,” Logan scoffs, but manages to lever himself upright. Drapes an arm around Veronica’s shoulders and leans heavily as he swoons, making her stagger to support his weight. “I can’t hop to confirm…but pretty sure there’s a parking garage full of cars maybe half a mile that direction.”

“Then we better start walking.” Weevil yanks at the netting attached to his leg, winces as it squeezes tighter, then leads the way down the rutted sidewalk. Mac circles quietly to Logan’s left and pulls his other arm around her, helping Veronica half-carry him.

They’ve made it one ring closer to the chaos of the inner city. The streetlights are all broken here, the buildings rusted out and vacant—not even boarded up, just hollow, like rows of many-eyed leering skulls. Nocturnal animals scuttle through drifting detritus, disappearing behind grates as they walk past. It’s hard to believe these were all businesses, once, making tech and trading money for an electronic economy long gone.

“You know, my parents hated that we lost the ability to own cars.” Mac eyes the models abandoned on the street, huffing with effort as Logan stumbles. “They loved machines…taking apart engines, making broken ones run. My mom said when she was a kid, her family’d get in the car and drive for DAYS on vacation. Just for FUN. Can you imagine?”

“I used to fly on airplanes.” Logan shakes his head as if to clear it. “When I was really little, to visit movie sets. I still remember how it felt, accelerating up that high. Looking down at clouds. I was into the whole thing, big time…knew all the cloud types’ names.”

Veronica lifts her brows, because that kind of wealth’s unheard of for anyone not named Kane. Wonders, again, just who Logan IS. Then frowns when the low hum of a motor reaches her ears, as if summoned by the conversation.

“Company,” she murmurs, shouldering Logan and Mac into the nearest empty building—it’s an ancient drugstore, windows long-shattered. Weevil follows, and the four of them crouch to avoid headlights, waiting for whoever it is to pass.

Instead of fading, though, the hum grows louder—approaches, unerring. It’s a large black limousine, polished and pristine, the most incongruous sight Veronica can imagine in a neighborhood like this. It purrs down the road towards them, and eases to a halt just outside the pharmacy door.

“Shit.” Weevil looks down at the net on his leg with resignation. “This must be tagged. I TOLD you to cut it all away, Mackenzie.”

“The knife flew out of my hand!” she says, as the car’s driver gets out, circles around to the rear door. It’s the man who stood in the room while Veronica and Logan ate, earlier…Kane’s big, silent, deadly bodyguard. “And there was a limit to what I could tear. We might as well go quietly, you guys. We don’t know the back way out of this building, and we’ve clearly been made.”

“You’re giving up that easy?” Logan asks, as the man reaches into the back, extending a hand to help someone out. “Because in my op…”

He trails off as a girl climbs from the seat, slightly plump and graceful, dressed all in white. Then stands as if mesmerized, and drifts into the open doorway.

She’s tidied up now, clean and shod, her long blonde hair brushed smooth in a shiny curtain. It’s not till she moves into range of the headlights that Veronica notes the bruises mottling her arms. The slight green tinge of her skin.

“Hello, lover,” the dead girl Jake reanimated says, holding Logan captive with her gaze like she’s a cobra and he’s a rat. Smiles, a brief baring of small teeth that looks more frightening than a snarl. Approaches at a saunter, curvy hips swaying.

And then, grin not diminishing an iota, attacks.


End file.
